


Wishing It True

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [123]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthurian, Barebacking, Bottom Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Canon Era, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Consensual Non-Consent, Crossdressing, Emotional Infidelity, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Infidelity, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, Light Bondage, M/M, Magic Revealed, Masturbation, Merlin's Magic Revealed, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Violence, Oral Sex, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Public Nudity, Rimming, Sexual Fantasy, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 11:02:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: Part of Merlin’s charm has always been his absolute inability to understand his own importance, and yet there are times when Arthur wants to grab him by his overlarge ears and shake him, rattle his brain around in that thick skull until the scales fall from his eyes and he can finally see what’s going on right in front of him.Or: five times Arthur fantasised about having sex with Merlin, and the one time it actually came true.Written forthisKinks of Camelot prompt.





	Wishing It True

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](https://kinksofcamelot.livejournal.com/1806.html?thread=26638) Kinks of Camelot prompt: _A story that shows a series of Arthur's fantasies about Merlin (and maybe Merlin's too about Arthur). Maybe they'd be bantering or Arthur watching Merlin tidy up or something and get caught up in a fantasy (sexy or not, a mixture is fine)._

 

1.

 

The first time it happens, Arthur blames it on the wine. Merlin is preparing him for bed the way he always does, his hands not quite steady and his balance—never certain—turned dangerously off-kilter, even standing still. This close, Arthur is able to see the soft pink shape of his mouth, bitten red between his teeth as he concentrates intently on the task at hand, and he can almost count the dark lashes where they feather against his pale skin. It seems to take considerable effort for Merlin to untangle the knots at Arthur’s wrists and throat, and when he finally goes to lift the shirt over Arthur’s head, Arthur can feel his hands, broad and gentle, skimming lightly over the fabric before they curl around the hem.

 

Arthur would be lying if he said he had never once thought of Merlin _that way_ , but thus far they had been fleeting impressions only, more the product of inevitable proximity than anything so articulate as desire. This evening, however, he is struck by the sudden, vivid realisation of what it might be like to have Merlin undress him for another purpose; if Merlin were kneeling in front of him, not to unlace his boots but to take Arthur into his mouth, those plump lips slick with spit and taut around his length as he swallows Arthur down. 

 

The effect of this vision is so arresting that for a time Arthur loses track of his surroundings. He allows himself to be divested (clumsily) of boots and breeches without paying attention, and is so distracted when Merlin attempts to bundle him (also clumsily) into his shift that it takes several tries before he manages to get his arms in the right holes. All the while, Merlin is standing right in front of him, fumblingly awkward and distractingly close, his neckerchief canted to expose the white length of a throat that has somehow become the most fascinating thing Arthur has ever seen.

 

It has to be the wine. Arthur has always kept a tight rein on his attraction to men, guarding his secret the way he would shield his weakest flank in battle. He is aware that, as a prince, such liaisons are unacceptable in the long term—a tumble or two off on campaign might be overlooked, but Arthur’s destiny is to marry a woman and father an heir who will one day rule the kingdom. He does not have the luxury of preference, and even if he did, surely it would not be _Merlin_ , of all people, who would make his blood heat and his cock stir by virtue of sheer cupidity. Merlin is a peasant, and a terrible manservant, and seems to take great delight in vexing Arthur at every turn—hardly the sort of person with whom he would embark on a desperate love affair.

 

No, it’s definitely the wine that makes him seem so desirable. Arthur has seen many a drunken idiot go home with a woman he would never have slept with sober, and had Merlin been such a woman Arthur might even have been tempted—might have drawn him down under the blankets for a quick fuck, wrestling Merlin onto his stomach on the sheets and moaning aloud as he sank into that tight heat—

 

“Sire?” Merlin pauses in the act of blowing out the candles and looks back at him, blue eyes huge and questioning in the dark. “Did you need something?”

 

“No,” Arthur replies, cheeks burning. He slides down under the covers and pulls his pillow over his head, barely hearing Merlin close the door on his way out.

 

He doesn’t remember the incident in the morning.

 

 

2.

 

Arthur does not daydream. As Crown Prince of Camelot, his life is peculiarly fraught with hazardous situations, where a moment's inattention might spell the difference between life and death. In any case, he is a pragmatist, and has long since accepted that he will get much further in his endeavours if he keeps his attention fixed firmly in the present. 

 

In the present, Merlin is crossing the courtyard below him, his head bent in conversation with Guinevere, who is following beside him with her hands twisted nervously into her skirts. Merlin has obviously been down to the lake, for his hair is damp and curling at the ends and his shirt is sticking to him in places, outlining the contours of his muscles beneath the rough-spun fabric. The summer has been a hot one, and Arthur knows that many of the castle’s servants have taken to swimming in the millpond every chance they get, using whatever opportunity they can to refresh themselves in the sweltering heat.

 

Most of the time, they swim naked.

 

Arthur has been aware of this fact for as long as he can remember—he has lived in the citadel all his life, and as such is intimately acquainted with the habits of its citizenry—yet it has never until this moment struck him as particularly important. He understands that it is a practical choice as much as anything, and that the lower orders were not brought up to the kind of modesty that befits the son of a king, but in that instant he can only think of what it would be like to see _Merlin_ naked, all that soft, pale skin shining on display, the tips of his ears burned red from too long in the sun.

 

Would Merlin be shy, he wonders. If Arthur were to, say, set off on an impromptu hunting trip, and demand that they bathe in the first river they come across, would Merlin complain and demur and strip only to his small-clothes, or would he be heedless of the prince’s presence?

 

He would not swim easily, Arthur imagines—Ealdor was a land-locked village and some distance from the nearest lake or sea, so perhaps Merlin would only wade into the shallows, his cock nestled soft and pink between his legs and his dark hair gleaming. Arthur would have to convince him to go any further—would perhaps push him in and hold him under a moment until he came up spluttering, then goad him into venturing deeper by dint of some well-placed barbs about servants and cowardice. Arthur does not really consider Merlin to be a coward, but it is occasionally entertaining to foster his indignation; Merlin does not fear being thought a weakling the way a knight would, but reacts only to the unfairness of the taunt, screwing up his mouth and glaring as if Arthur ought to know full well the extent of his courage.

 

On the other hand, perhaps Merlin has already conquered his fear of the water. Perhaps he has spent the afternoon showing off for the blacksmith’s daughter, who, on her way back to the forge, would of course stop and watch him darting beneath the surface, his wet skin supple like the pelt of a seal…

 

“…therefore, Sir Cadoc proposes we raise taxes once again. Arthur, are you listening to me?”

 

“Of course, Father,” Arthur says at once, his mind turning seamlessly back to the discussion at hand. He does not daydream, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t mastered the art of following two different avenues of thought at once. “You know my feelings about Sir Cadoc’s proposal. Those people can barely afford to live as it is—if we take any more from them, we’ll be risking open revolt. But if I might offer a suggestion…”

 

Down in the courtyard, Merlin and Guinevere part ways with smiles on both sides, and Gwen gives Merlin a little wave just after his back is turned.

 

Arthur is not the only one who watches him as he leaves.

 

 

3.

 

By the time the summer has dwindled and the leaves have begun to turn, Arthur can no longer deny that this is not a temporary thing. He spends the first night of autumn dreaming of Merlin in one of Morgana’s dresses, his skirts rucked up around his decidedly un-feminine hips and his head thrown back as he rides Arthur to completion, and in the morning he wakes to sticky sheets and a vague sense of dissatisfaction that he can’t seem to put out of his mind.

 

There can be no disputing the fact that he is attracted to Merlin. Some nights he watches Merlin stoke the fire and is entranced by the movement of his hands; other times, it is Merlin’s face that fascinates him, and once even those inimitable ears. At the same time, however, Arthur is all too aware that in these fantasies, Merlin is essentially a passive participant, an uncomplaining instrument of Arthur’s pleasure. He has no context by which to picture what Merlin might be like in such private moments, and apparently he lacks the imagination to invent them; as a result, the Merlin in his head is but a poor copy of the one who torments his every waking moment, capable of little more than moaning Arthur’s name and coming spectacularly—sometimes multiple times a night.

 

Much as Arthur might like to imagine that his own prowess would reduce Merlin to speechlessness, however, he knows that his life has never been that easy. He has no doubt that Merlin in the real world would be a mess of long legs and sharper elbows, as insubordinate in bed as he is in the rest of his endeavours. Arthur can imagine his cock well enough (slightly longer than his own but a little thinner, like Merlin himself), and has no need to imagine Merlin’s pert little arse, since it is waved in his face on an almost daily basis. What he craves are the smaller, more intimate details: what Merlin sounds like when he comes, the look on his face, whether Merlin would be a cuddler and if so what it would be like to be held by him, or to hold onto him in turn.

 

In desperation, he tries to conjure some version of the pillow talk that might pass between them, something approximating their usual give and take. He would laugh, he thinks, if Merlin attempted to tell him he was beautiful, or any of the other nonsense phrases he’d heard people spill to one another in the throes of lovemaking. In any case, he doubts Merlin would ever think such things. Merlin’s idea of romance is likely as crude as his upbringing, full of blunt words and even blunter actions. He would not waste time with silly compliments or flowery speeches, but he would be honest and he would be eager; he would be, frustratingly, real.

 

The night after he dreams of Merlin in the dress, Arthur lies on his stomach with his legs splayed, one oil-slicked finger circling his taint—a strangely delicate word for so indelicate a thing. Biting his lower lip between his teeth, he works the digit gradually inside, imagining one of Merlin’s long fingers coaxing him open in its stead, Merlin’s voice whispering all manner of filthy things into his ear. He has never done this before, has never dared, because it has been made clear to him what the world thinks of a man who spreads his legs for another, but with Merlin he thinks he could bear the shame; it might not be a shame at all, in fact, to have Merlin inside him, filling him until Arthur can’t take any more. He closes his eyes at the idea of it, flexing his hips as he pictures himself drawing Merlin deeper, Merlin probing into him until he finds the spot that makes Arthur stiffen and cry out. He can almost see the smile of self-satisfaction—Merlin would tease him, perhaps, rubbing at that secret place only to withdraw again and leave Arthur gasping, and then he would lave kisses along the base of Arthur’s spine and lap at his hole like a wanton, tasting him, while Arthur writhed on the bed and cursed and came undone.

 

Or perhaps it would be simpler than that. Arthur adds a second finger, groaning at the way it makes his muscles burn, his cock leaking eagerly against the bedclothes. Somehow, the Merlin in his head is experienced without actually having slept with a man before—perhaps he has been reading too many of Gaius’ textbooks, practicing on himself in the night when there is no one to hear. It’s no wonder he turns up late sometimes in the mornings, sloe-eyed and drowsy, moving with that slightly ungainly walk of his that could hide so many secrets. Arthur would tumble him without warning somewhere—shove him down onto a sack of grain and take his mouth—and Merlin would laugh and let himself be tumbled, using those gorgeous, slender, infuriatingly clumsy hands to fuck Arthur still in his breeches, with nothing but spit to slick the way between them.

 

Like this, the real Merlin is a more vibrant presence, nudging Arthur onwards through his own discomfort and into something new and genuine. Through it all, however, Arthur cannot seem to envision what Merlin would _say_ , or how they would act with one another afterwards. In all his fantasies there is never any need for words: what Arthur wants is already known and understood, and everything settled between them. In real life, however, Merlin remains stubborn and oblivious, and Arthur can't seem to interrupt the momentum of their everyday lives. He has Merlin’s hands on his skin and Merlin’s breath in his hair but not in the way he wants them, and when he comes it is with Merlin’s name trapped behind his teeth, without even the breath to speak it aloud.

 

 

4.

 

It’s not Gwen, in the end, who comes between them.

 

Arthur had been sure it would be; could see it in the way Merlin subtly nudged the two of them together, as if the fool couldn’t tell that the only common denominator between them both was him. Part of Merlin’s charm has always been his absolute inability to understand his own importance, and yet there are times when Arthur wants to grab him by his overlarge ears and shake him, rattle his brain around in that thick skull until the scales fall from his eyes and he can finally _see_ what’s going on right in front of him.

 

And then—

 

“You’re a sorcerer,” Arthur spits, face to face with him across a clearing in the woods, the body of a dead man sprawled in the grass between them. In retrospect, it is hideously obvious: the one glaring truth that Arthur had not been able to guess, the one thing about Merlin he couldn’t put his finger on. “Have you been using magic all this time?”

 

“I was born with it,” Merlin says quietly. “But I swear, I only ever used it for you.”

 

Arthur punches him. Merlin goes down without a sound, save for a tiny surprised rush of air and a muffled thud, and Arthur stands over him with his fists still raised, trying to breathe around the hurt in his chest.

 

“Get up,” he says, the words grating as they leave his throat. “Get up and face me, damn you.”

 

Slowly, Merlin gets to his feet. He has a hand to the side of his jaw, blue eyes wide and impossibly innocent, like a puppy that doesn’t understand why it’s just been kicked. “Arthur—”

 

“I said, _face me_.” Arthur pushes him up against a tree and Merlin grapples with him, kicking and punching with all the force of an angry child. Arthur blocks the first strike, but takes a hit when one of Merlin’s elbows comes out of nowhere, catching him at the corner of his eye. He retaliates by grabbing for Merlin’s flailing wrist, and it is the work of a moment to twist it behind Merlin’s back and kick his feet out from under him the way he did when they first met, sending Merlin to his knees in the grass.

 

“Is that the best you can do?” Arthur asks, breathing the words into Merlin’s ear. The sorcerer doesn’t answer, just wriggles in Arthur’s grip, and Arthur lets him go again just to see what he will do.

 

Merlin fights without any kind of grace or strategy, battering at Arthur’s chest with fists that bounce off his chainmail and little grunts of exertion, and it’s not until the prince has him on the ground for the second time that he reaches for his magic. In an instant, Arthur finds himself flat on his back with the devil leaning over him, all gold eyes a wild hair and tears streaming down his face, and the strange thing is, he isn't even afraid.

 

This is the real Merlin, then, the one he had half glimpsed from time to time when they were inches from disaster; the one whose improbably wise eyes sometimes looked out of that improbably young face to peer into Arthur's soul. The real Merlin is powerful and beautiful, and it immediately becomes clear how very, very easily Arthur could have been beaten. And yet—

 

“Try it,” he says, very softly, the tip of his dagger digging into the white, vulnerable hollow at the base of Merlin’s throat. “I dare you.”

 

Merlin’s pupils bloom dark, and for a moment Arthur thinks he’s going to do it, that he’s going to have to kill _Merlin_ —but then the sorcerer lets go of him and seems to deflate slightly, his head bowing over the naked blade. “I’m not going to hurt you, Arthur. I won't.”

 

It’s a bit too late for promises; but then, they both know that already. Dagger sheathed, Arthur lies panting on his back in the grass, feeling Merlin’s slight weight on his chest and thinking, treacherously, of what might have happened if he’d allowed the sorcerer to win. To the victor go the spoils, after all, and it would hardly be his fault if Merlin were to overpower him, to spread him hot and helpless against the grass and steal his voice so that he couldn’t even scream—

 

“Get _off_ me,” he grunts, shoving Merlin hard, and Merlin topples gracelessly into the dirt, where he sits blinking gormlessly up at him—no longer the looming, impossible threat but his own foolish manservant once again. “We are never going to speak of this again. Do you understand?”

 

Merlin just nods, shock-silent, his face set serious and pale in the late afternoon light. There’s a small trickle of blood running down his chin from where Arthur split his lip, and dirt on his cheeks.

 

“Not _ever_.” Arthur repeats it for good measure. Something like pain is trying to fight its way out of his chest, the words he can never say crowded together on his tongue until his throat aches with the effort of not saying them. “As far as I’m concerned, this never happened.”

 

“Does that mean I get to stay in Camelot?” Merlin asks, watching him warily. “You’re not—you’re not going to banish me?”

 

“Would you leave here if I ordered it?”

 

After a short hesitation, Merlin shakes his head.

 

“Then stay. Or don’t. Right now, I’m not sure I care either way.”

 

Merlin flinches again at that, and Arthur wants, as he has never wanted, to be someone else, someone who could rage and shout and demand to know _why_ Merlin had never told him this fatal secret about himself, had never trusted Arthur with his whole heart the way Arthur had trusted him with his.

 

The answer is obvious, of course. But that doesn’t make Arthur feel any better.

 

He helps Merlin to his feet. It seems the thing to do. Merlin’s palm is cool and dry in his, and when they return to Camelot Arthur lies to his father about the ambush without blinking, feeling the trusting weight of those fingers curling against his skin. When Merlin next pushes him at Gwen—or Gwen at him—Arthur complies quietly, pretending he doesn’t see the way Merlin’s eyes follow after him, pained but hopeful, longing for something Arthur wants only too badly to give him in return.

 

 

5.

 

If there are echoes of his feelings for Merlin in his relationship with Gwen, Arthur carefully ignores them. Guinevere is her own person, and though at times she seems very much a mirror of her friend, even down to the use of the very same words, Arthur values her most for the ways in which she is unlike Merlin: her hips, her breasts, the sway of her hair down her back as she walks. Gwen wears dresses and likes flowers and smiles at him when he leans close to whisper romantically into her ear, and she comprehends the _practicalities_ of running a kingdom in a way that Merlin never has. Merlin seems to believe that Arthur can move mountains simply by willing it, but Gwen understands that there are protocols to be followed, that sometimes doing the right thing isn’t as simple as merely deciding it will be done. Having lived in the Lower Town all her life, she is as familiar with Camelot’s court as he is, and Arthur can picture her one day as his queen, ruling beside him, raising a brood of curly-haired children who will someday rule, carefully and justly, in their stead.

 

Arthur likes Gwen. He likes the way her nipples peak when he plays with them, the wet and slippery heat of her under his fingers and the way she clenches around him when she comes. Gwen is soft where Merlin is hard, safe where Merlin is so very dangerous, and she seems to fit into his life more easily than Merlin does, for all that they are both peasants and come from a similar stock. Gwen is graceful and charming and polite, all the things that Merlin is not, and unlike Merlin she can be trusted not to have him under some kind of spell.

 

It is not Gwen, however, with whom Arthur imagines running away to Ealdor when the pressures of the kingdom become too great. He and Gwen would not grow old together on a farm like ordinary people, sharing the trials and tribulations of life with only each other for company, but he and Merlin might. He can picture them in ten years time, greyer but no less active, watching the sun go down from a small hut on the outskirts of the village. He would make Merlin do most of the heavier work, of course, since with his magic he would find it ten times easier, but Arthur likes to think he would do his fair share in the fields as well, walking back tired and content to spend evenings with Merlin in their bed. If they made love, it would be unhurried and tender, and Arthur would slide his cock inside Merlin’s body and murmur to him the things he has never told anyone. There would be no one to pressure him, no expectations to live up to, just Arthur and Merlin at the end of the world.

 

Strangely enough, it is this fantasy which disturbs him most of all.

 

 

+1

 

When Gwen leaves, as she inevitably does, a part of Arthur goes with her. He had known, deep down, that it wouldn’t last; they had been kept together more by wishful thinking than anything else, and his life is nothing if not a testament to the fact that wishing for something doesn’t make it so. Still, watching her depart feels like the ending of a dream, the last threshold of possibility closing before him and leaving his future empty and blank. Guinevere had found her Lancelot, and in the end she had loved him more—or perhaps it was that Arthur had loved her less. It is somehow a bitterer sting because he finds he cannot blame her.

 

“Sire, come away from the window,” Merlin says gently, the third time he catches Arthur staring out into the night. Arthur does not want to look at him— _can’t_ look at him, afraid of what Merlin might read in his gaze—but he watches the bright blur of Merlin’s reflection approach in the glass until it stops behind him, always half a step away from where Arthur wants him to be.

 

“I thought I dismissed you hours ago,” he says tiredly, wondering if he had imagined Merlin’s retreat, the click of the closed door that so often stood between them. “Why are you still here?”

 

“Because I’m your friend,” Merlin answers readily enough, though beneath his confidence Arthur thinks he can hear a question. “And because I don’t think anyone should have to go through this alone.”

 

The words are starker here than they might otherwise have been, falling as they do into an empty bedchamber that had once been filled with the promise of a life, but they bring with them a certain clarity. As always, it is Merlin who remains when everyone else has left him, and it is Merlin who understands without judging what Arthur really needs, who holds out the hand of friendship even though Arthur keeps pushing him away. Arthur can see now the enormity of the truth as he had first uncovered it in the forest—how wrong his father had been about the nature of sorcerers, and how much Merlin must have given up for him, for all of them, if he was willing to stand silent by Arthur’s side for all these years.

 

If this were one of Arthur’s fantasies, he would turn around and Merlin would be naked. Arthur would take him there on the bed, on the clean linen sheets that smelled of lavender and not of his faithless wife, and they would forget that there had ever been any secrets between them. Instead, when Arthur finally turns away from the window it is to find Merlin fully dressed and wary, standing braced as though getting ready to run, and it is that more than anything else which makes the last of Arthur's resistance crumble, giving way like a castle beneath a years-long siege.

 

“Thank you, Merlin,” he says quietly. “You always were a better friend than I deserved.”

 

Merlin’s expression flickers for a moment, uncertain, before he smiles and begins to divest Arthur of his tunic unasked, loosening his laces with practiced, skilful fingers. There is something soothing in the motion, and watching him work gives Arthur an odd sense of recognition that is not quite deja vu. He thinks he might have had a dream like this once, where Merlin had stripped him naked and taken Arthur in his mouth, using nothing but lips and tongue to coax him into ecstasy, the burn of his stubble scorching Arthur’s thighs. The white line of Merlin’s neck is the same where he is bent to untie Arthur’s boots, the soft brush of his fingers against Arthur’s ankle and calf sliding against the skin like a prelude to something far more intimate. When he straightens, Arthur’s feet are bare and Merlin’s hands are on his hips, and Arthur leans into his grip like a drunkard, cloth-headed, his mouth brushing feather-light over Merlin’s own.

 

“You kissed me,” Merlin says, after a moment, shocked out of his silence. 

 

“Well spotted.” It comes out textured with rust, sticking in his throat as Arthur realises what he’s done. “Nothing gets past you.”

 

“ _Why_ did you kiss me?”

 

The only possible response to that is another kiss, this one deeper and more leisurely than the last, and since he hasn’t been blasted away with magic quite yet, Arthur even goes so far as to cradle Merlin’s cheek, running the pad of his thumb along the edge of Merlin’s jaw and eliciting a noise like a bitten-off moan.

 

“ _Arthur_ ,” Merlin chokes, when they break apart. Arthur ducks his head into the sound like a caress, thinking _this is what it feels like_ and wondering how in any of his fantasies he had ever thought he might come close.

 

“Merlin.”

 

“What are you—why are you doing this?”

 

“Why do you think?” Arthur asks him, pressing a kiss into the palm of Merlin’s hand. He can’t seem to bring himself to stop touching Merlin, not even long enough to explain what this is, and more importantly, what it _isn’t_. Already he can see the guarded look returning to Merlin’s eyes, as if he fully expects Arthur to shove him into the dirt again, but Arthur is done pretending this doesn’t matter; he’s done pretending altogether, and he tries to convey as much without using words, dropping kisses all along the line of Merlin’s jaw until Merlin stops him with a hand over his mouth.

 

“Tell me you want me,” he whispers, searching Arthur’s face. “Tell me this isn’t because of Gwen, or because you’re lonely—”

 

“I want you,” Arthur assures him roughly, crowding him back against the wall and pinning him there with his hips, letting him feel just how much he wants, “though I’ve long ago given up trying to figure out why.”

 

Merlin laughs a little and lets him in, cupping his palms to Arthur’s cheeks and nudging Arthur’s thighs apart with his knee, and this—this is what Arthur had missed, in all of his daydreams about this moment; the way that Merlin would casually take him apart without even meaning to; the way it would feel, to stand here and know that he is loved.

 

“This doesn’t fix anything, you know,” Merlin tells him softly, warning in his voice even as he nips at Arthur’s chin. “You’re still a prat of the highest order.” He pulls away, eyes serious. “I still have magic, Arthur. It isn’t just going to go away.”

 

Arthur wants to say it will be easy. He wants to say, _that doesn’t matter_ , or, _we can talk about it in the morning_ and have that be the end of the discussion, but he knows that Merlin deserves better than that. Knows, too, that if they’re to have any chance of making things work there has to be more to this than want and half-formed fantasies that will dissolve in the cold, hard light of day.

 

“I know,” he says, and it’s surprisingly easy to admit it after all this time. “I haven’t forgotten.”

 

“And you’re okay with it?”

 

“I’m okay with you.” Arthur nudges at his cheek, and when Merlin pulls back to look at him he says more plainly, “I don’t want to lose you.”

 

“So this _is_ because of Gwen,” Merlin says, still wary. “Because she left you.”

 

“Only indirectly.” Arthur kisses him again and holds on, fingers in his hair and a fist in his shirt and the desperation in his throat like ashes. “It’s because you should have left a long time ago, but you didn’t. And because I need you.”

 

"You need me," Merlin repeats, and he's almost smiling. "Can I get that in writing?"

 

Later, Arthur shows him instead, cataloguing with his mouth all the parts of Merlin that are not like Gwen: his narrow hips, his thighs, the stiff cock leaking between them as Arthur nudges him back onto the mattress. It is slender and pink, just as Arthur pictured, and Merlin moans when Arthur sinks onto it, rising up to meet him with a long, slow thrust until he is perfectly sheathed inside him.

 

“My king,” Merlin breathes out, reaching up to touch. “You’re beautiful.”

 

And Arthur laughs, and tells him to hurry up and move.


End file.
